


Things just don't grow (if you don't bless them with your patience)

by tryalittlejoytomorrow



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Body Paint, F/M, Grounder traditions, and Bellamy being a history and mythology buff for obvious reasons, the fic I shamelessly call the "fucking fertility festival" fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3543065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryalittlejoytomorrow/pseuds/tryalittlejoytomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy’s done a lot of ridiculous things for Octavia, that’s what big brothers do – or at least that’s what he does. Pretend to be a horse and give her a pony ride for hours? Check. Have an imaginary tea party with her and all her non-existent stuffed animals? Check. Tell her stories about gods and monsters where good always wins against evil, with sound effects and different voices? Check.</p>
<p>But this? Hell, this is worse than anything he’s ever done for his sister.</p>
<p>(In which Bellamy and Clarke are invited to join a Grounder ceremony; Lincoln sure didn't explain everything beforehand.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things just don't grow (if you don't bless them with your patience)

**Author's Note:**

> This is unapologetic fluff I wrote to forget about all the angst the early part of S2B brought. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title from First Aid Kit's "Emmylou."

Bellamy’s done a lot of ridiculous things for Octavia, that’s what big brothers do – or at least that’s what _he_ does. Pretend to be a horse and give her a pony ride for hours? Check. Have an imaginary tea party with her and all her non-existent stuffed animals? Check. Tell her stories about gods and monsters where good always wins against evil, with sound effects and different voices? Check.

But _this_? Hell, this is worse than anything he’s ever done for his sister.

“Will you just stop squirming?” Clarke sighs from her kneeling position between his legs, her warm breath tickling him as it fans over his face.

Bellamy glares at her. If any of the kids came in now, he would never hear the end of it: Clarke Griffin, savior leader princess, kneeling between his legs in bed, paintbrush in hand and drawing _fucking flowers_ on his body. Jasper would probably scream around camp about Mom and Dad _finally_ getting together – he needs to put whoever came up with those stupid nicknames and anyone who uses them on latrine duty for a month – and yet Bellamy would rather face _that_ than the upcoming humiliation of having to go through this ridiculous ceremony covered in pink and yellow doodles.

Staring at the vibrant pink twirl on his left bicep – a dahlia, Clarke had said, like the ones that bloomed in the meadow earlier in the summer – Bellamy softens his gaze. Clarke’s talented; hell, she probably could make a Reaper look pretty, but it doesn’t mean he wants to become her human canvas because of some Grounder tradition. “Tell me again why I’ve agreed to this,” he sighs, closing his eyes and lifting a hand to his temple, feeling a headache stumping there.

“Don’t!” Clarke stops him, catching his wrist with her fingers, and _damn_ , he’d forgotten about whatever she drew on his face. He obediently drops his hand, brushing her side before gripping the fur blanket, and she gives him a smile. “They’ve been very nice and welcoming, Bellamy,” she goes on softly. “The least we can do is learn about their customs and return the favor.”

Bellamy snorts. Of course Clarke doesn’t mind that much, she’s not the one covered in paint. All she got was some kind of feathery dress that she actually looks _very_ pretty in – who is he even kidding, he’s seen her at her best and at her worst, bloody and battered and bruised, and _even then_ Clarke’s never been anything but utterly beautiful. “Remind me again how you managed to keep your dignity when I have to walk out of this room looking like a bunch of four year-olds attacked me with paint.”

“Heh!” Clarke protests, giving a spot on his shoulder with no paint on a not-so-light punch. “I’ll have you know you’re my one masterpiece. You’re so pretty,” she pretends to swoon, blue eyes sparking in mischief and beaming smile stretching her lips, and _oh, okay_ , maybe he can look ridiculous for a night (and face eternal shame with the kids) if it makes her smile like that.

“Are you sure you got it right?” he presses as she dips her _finger_ ( _has she forgotten she has a brush?_ ) in the yellow paint and focuses on his right forearm, drawing a daisy there. His skin prickles in its wake, and Bellamy has to suppress a shiver at her touch. “Like, maybe you could try something more _manly_ , I don’t know, like –“

“Lincoln was very specific about it,” Clarke interrupts him, half-exasperated, half-amused at his attempt to escape this – it’s only the _fourth_ time he asks. A whining Bellamy is endearing though for some reason, maybe because of the boyish quality it gives him. “Flower tattoos for men and feathers for women. Something about saying goodbye to the beautiful things before the earth goes to sleep during winter, I think.” His eyes widen comically and Clarke laughs. “Oh come on, Bellamy,” she chides him, tapping her paint-covered finger on his cheek, dotting his freckles with yellow. “It’s kind of poetic, even _you_ have to admit that.”

“I’ll give you poetic,” he grumbles, and she giggles – actually _giggles_ , and God, he hasn’t heard her do that since their first Unity Day on Earth, he thinks. Young and carefree and so loud, and Clarke brings a hand to her mouth to cover the sound but he stops her because her laughter is like music to his ears.

( _God_ , Octavia turned him into a wimp the day she was born, but Clarke’s done a pretty good job catching up.)

She’s quiet all of a sudden, her eyes drawn to his long fingers wrapped around hers, and then Clarke looks amused again. “Give me poetic, then, I’m all ears,” she chuckles.

He thinks about it for a moment and she absently rests her hands on his knees as she waits. “The Greeks had this myth about summer and winter,” Bellamy finally says. “That was actually O’s favorite story when she was little.” Clarke tilts her head to the side in encouragement, and she looks so adorable he’d even do the different voices for her if she asked. “It’s about some god kidnapping a girl because he wants a wife and the earth going barren and dark and cold because her mom’s pissed, basically,” he explains with a smirk.

Clarke’s brows knit in a tight frown, her lips parting slightly in a silent gasp. “I’m sorry, what?” she says, looking at him like he’s crazy. “What kind of stories did you tell your little sister?”

He can’t help it – he laughs at the incredulous look on her face. “I didn’t say it _like that_ , Princess,” he snorts. “I made it all poetic and romantic.”

“Did you now?” Clarke laughs, a fond smile gracing her lips. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that badass Bellamy is also _Bell_ , Octavia’s big brother, giant protective teddy bear with big hands and an even bigger heart. She sees it in the way he can be with the kids, how proud he is of them and how he’s learned to show his affection; with a hand clapping Miller’s back or a lazy arm wrapped around Monroe’s shoulders around the fire at night – but these moments when he opens up and shares feel like _hers_ only. “Come on, you have to tell me now,” she goes on, gently patting his thigh before lifting her brush to his neck this time, resuming her work. “I want to know all about your creepy pervert gods.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, clears his throat and sighs dramatically – the perfect beginning to any story. “Once upon a time in a magical land, there was a god named Hades who was the ruler of the underworld,” he starts, his voice deep, and Clarke can’t help the small smile that finds its way on her face. She can picture it so easily, little Octavia sitting on his lap, big wide eyes so enthralled by her brother’s words. “Everybody feared him for he was the lord of the dead, but in reality he wasn’t mean or cruel, he had just been unlucky enough to be chosen to carry that burden: welcoming people in their last home. The underworld was sad and dark and cold, and Hades felt so very lonely.”

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to start rooting for the creepy guy?” Clarke cuts in and asks, and Bellamy looks so offended at her interruption and comment she laughs again.

“You ruin everything,” Bellamy groans – almost _pouts_ – and tries to cross his arms over his chest before remembering that the paint is not dry yet. He glares at her again, and Clarke has the decency to look _a_ _little_ ashamed of herself as she bites on her lip to keep from laughing. “Anyway,” Bellamy eventually scoffs before his tone gets deep again, “one day Hades felt so sick of being alone all the time that he decided to take a day off. He hadn’t been on the ground for years, nor felt the sun or the soft breeze on his face. He didn’t even remember the smells or the noises. His world was in black and white but Earth was in screaming colors, vivid and brilliant and so alive – and when he heard _her_ laugh, his heart skipped a beat.”

_Oh_. Looks like Hades and he share more than he remembered.

Clarke looks up at him from beneath her lashes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she thinks of what to draw next, but her gaze is soft and warm and _this_ is what spring feels like after long months of winter. “He turned around and here she was,” he goes on in a soft voice, suddenly very aware of how close they are, Clarke almost on his lap, her hands dancing on his skin. “She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, golden hair and skin like she’d been kissed by the sun, bright blue eyes the shade of the sky, and Hades could have stayed there and looked at her forever.”

Bellamy understands the feeling.

(He also used to tell Octavia that Persephone looked just like her. Oh, _well_.)

He reaches out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear and Clarke gives him a small smile before looking at him expectantly, and he sighs softly, breaking out of his reverie. He’s telling her about Hades and Persephone spending the day playing in the cornfields, about how he was so happy with her that he forgot how much he hated himself for a few hours, and how broken he felt when he had to leave her and go back to the underworld, when someone knocks on the door of the little hut.

Clarke huffs a little sigh, visibly annoyed that someone would _dare_ interrupt story time, and Bellamy can’t help grinning like an idiot because this is _Clarke Griffin_ : badass extraordinaire and surrogate mother of a bunch of teens, whining because she didn’t get to hear the end of her story. “I’ll tell you tonight if you’re good,” he teases her.

She pokes a finger at his chest before calling out, “Come in,” not making any effort to move from his lap, and Lincoln doesn’t even startle at the sight as he stands in the doorframe.

Even worse, he’s _grinning_. “Nice work, Clarke,” he says, and Bellamy would probably punch him if he wasn’t sporting similar ink on his skin – looks like Octavia had fun, too. As their ambassador with the Grounder clans, Lincoln has become their second and earned a place of choice at the ceremony, but unlike Bellamy he doesn’t seem bothered by the required floral ornaments. “The ceremony is about to begin. Are you ready?” he asks.

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Do I have any skin _left_ to paint?” he groans as he looks down at his arms, covered in fuchsia and golden swirls and vine leaves, and then back at Lincoln. “ _His_ are green and blue. Really, _Princess_?” he exclaims, eyes wide and hands on his hips.

She giggles again, and _okay_ , maybe he’s being a little ridiculous, but damn, Bellamy is _twenty-five_ and he’s too old for stuff like this. But Clarke’s beaming and laughing and grabbing his hand, leading him out of the hut, and who cares if the kids laugh too? He’ll just put them all on latrine duty for the rest of their lives.

Clarke’s still holding his hand as they make their way to the clan leader, a young woman barely older than Bellamy, and her husband standing at her side who is mirroring Bellamy’s typical position at Clarke’s, having her back while still allowing her to stand on her own. Lincoln had explained that they raised their girls to be leaders and their boys to be warriors, and Bellamy’s perfectly okay with following their example for once. Clarke and he have always been side by side for all to see, sharing leadership and responsibilities, and maybe it comes from being a guard turned into soldier, Bellamy doesn’t know, but he only ever really feels like himself when he watches _his_ princess conquer.

(Wait, _what_?)

“Welcome, Clarke and Bellamy of the Sky People,” the woman – Thalia – greets them. “We’re honored that you could join us tonight.”

Clarke gives his hand a squeeze before dropping it as if to say _see? they’re so nice_ but all Bellamy can really focus on is the lingering feel of her hand in his, small and soft and warm, and this is getting _so_ old, this thing his heart does whenever she touches him – hell, whenever he just _thinks_ of her, which is _a lot_ considering they spend almost every waking ( _and sleeping_ ) hour together. “We’re so honored and humbled by the invitation,” Clarke replies and he nods along. _Humbled_ is _not_ the word he’d have chosen – at least not after finding out that he had to be covered in _flowers_ of all things – but _this_ is why Clarke does the talking. He just stands there as Thalia and she embrace, and he extends his hand to her husband, Micah – it’s not like he’s really keen on getting _more_ paint on him than necessary.

But of course Micah hugs him like they’re best friends and Clarke wipes an orange stain on his jaw with her thumb, a fond look on her face.

(He catches Octavia’s eye in the crowd of Arkers and Grounders all mixed together and she’s positively _beaming_.)

 

* * *

 

She’s a little tipsy on Grounder wine – something made with raspberries, a rare delicacy that Clarke has very quickly become addicted to and that Bellamy teases her about while doing his best to feed her sweet tooth – and it’s the _only_ reason why Clarke is smiling just upon watching Bellamy smile.

Okay, she’s _lying_ , she’s the biggest lying liar of all the lying liars who have ever lied – her tipsy self sounds a lot like Jasper and that’s more than a little bit concerning – because Clarke doesn’t need to be tipsy to feel her stomach flutter when he smiles. Bellamy doesn’t smile this freely a lot; there are just so many things to do every day, and the kids look up to him still for guidance and protection – there _is_ a reason why he’s the Dad to her Mom, after all. The nickname is ridiculous; still, it fits. None of them are kids anymore, not after everything they went through, but they all know that when they’ve done something stupid they’ll have to face strict but fairBellamy; they also know that when they need him, Bellamy can turn into a mother hen, ready to do anything for those he cares about. That’s just the way their merry little family of ragtag misfits works.

But tonight Bellamy’s features aren’t knitted in a frown or edging with worry. He’s smiling as he’s listening to the choir of Grounder kids singing – Lincoln’s translating the song for them, something about planting seeds before the ground turns to ice and watching the flowers bloom when the sun and the birds come back, but Clarke stopped listening a while ago – and his eyes are fond and soft, so typically _and_ so untypically Bellamy at the same time. She’s seen him with young kids before so she _knows_ he’s good with them, but she’s never stopped to think about whether Bellamy _liked_ them or would _want_ one of his own someday. It’s not exactly like their first year on Earth gave her any reason to believe they would survive long, let alone build their own village and make peace treaties with Grounder clans and feel _normal_ again.

But there’s a spark in his eyes tonight, something that feels a lot like _longing_ , and they’ve made it and life always goes on, winter comes every year but so does spring and isn’t it what tonight’s celebration is about? They’re alive and they have the right to appreciate it, relish in it, enjoy it, and maybe it’s even their _duty_ to keep living and not just surviving to honor the ones they lost. And maybe she never thought of Bellamy – or _any_ of them, really – growing old and starting his own family, but they’ve been on Earth for two years now and Clarke’s heart swells a little painfully, the good kind of pain, when she allows herself to whisper that _life is good now_. They came down here to live and that’s what they’re doing, and it’s easy to forget that Bellamy is twenty-five when some of the youngest in their group just celebrated their eighteenth birthday; but he’s a man, not a boy, and _okay_ , maybe the idea of a little kid running around with blonde hair and brown eyes and those adorable freckles does kind of work for her, too.

Wait, _what_?

Clarke shakes her head, trying to clear her mind but the combination of raspberry wine and Bellamy’s smile is a little too much and she can feel the heat rushing to her cheeks, so _of course_ Bellamy chooses that moment to turn his head to her. “You okay, Princess?” he asks, and _God_ , has his voice always been that deep and husky ( _yes_ ) or is it the wine talking ( _no_ )?

“Yeah, sure,” she replies, and Bellamy tilts his head to the side in that way that means he’s not buying it and Clarke feels her skin blush even more. Not from the fact that Bellamy can call her bullshit – he always has – but because she feels so stupid blushing in the first place. _This_ is what they do; speak in looks and smiles and eyebrow quirks, an indecipherable code to anyone else but them they made up a long time ago without ever talking about it. He knows her and she knows him, so why should she feel embarrassed of thinking about Bellamy like this?

Like, really, how can she _not_? They’ve been through hell together but through all of it he’s always been her _hope_ , even when all she could see was the darkness surrounding them. He’s hope and he’s home and if she’s honest with herself – she rarely is when it comes to her feelings, so _heh_ , this is a start – Clarke knows this is _not_ the first time her mind wanders there. Probably won’t be the last, either. There’s this moment between dawn and sunrise when Bellamy always starts snoring a little and it rouses her from sleep and she doesn’t have to pretend then; doesn’t have to pretend that she doesn’t love the feel of him wrapped around her, his face nuzzled in her neck, his arm slung around her waist, that if Clarke could she would stay there forever. It lasts just a few minutes, a short window of time between dream and reality before the soft thump of his heart lulls her back to sleep, but she can’t help wondering how much longer she can keep this up. Pretend that she doesn’t have time for romance, that they’re too busy leading to even think of getting involved with anybody; hell, as if she could imagine being with anyone else _but_ Bellamy when the kids look at her like she’s their real mom – talk about unhealthy and dysfunctional.

(Yeah, because _that’s_ the reason why he’s the only one, _sure_.)

“Earth to Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice cuts in her daydream – let’s be real, at this point it’s more of a fantasy she can’t turn off and it’s more ridiculous than it’s tragic because the real reason why nothing’s ever happened is that love’s a battlefield Clarke is not brave enough to march into again. She would give her life for Bellamy and she knows he would, too – has proved it over and over again – but she can’t allow herself to _just_ give into it and try to be happy, something that used to be such an unreachable dream in times of war but _can_ be a reality in times of peace. It should be a little alarming that she finds it a lot scarier to talk about her feelings or act on them than to face an army, but, _heh_. Tipsy Clarke is still _Clarke_ , and maybe Clarke knows that love is not weakness, she knows it deep down, but it doesn’t mean it’s any less terrifying.

Bellamy’s palm is suddenly on her forehead and then her cheek, and Clarke can’t help but lean into his touch, which makes him chuckle a little. “Okay, no more wine for you,” Bellamy says with a grin before he reaches for her cup and puts it down. “You’ve been staring at me for five minutes, so you’re either very proud of your work or you’re drunk and I’m _not_ carrying your drunk ass to bed tonight,” he laughs.

“Liar. You _so_ would,” Clarke says, and for good measure she sticks her tongue out at him like a four year-old because she doesn’t _have_ to be the mom all the time. “And I stick to what I said,” she goes on, lifting her hand to his arm and letting her fingers dance over the golden vine leaves there, “you _are_ my masterpiece.”

Bellamy laughs – a little fond, a little smug – and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “You’re so drunk, Princess,” he insists like it’s the funniest thing in the world and maybe it is. It doesn’t really matter, though, because he smells like raspberries and he’s warm and Clarke happily huddles against his side, completely forgetting about the crowd of delinquents and Grounders around them.

That is, until the choir of Grounder kids stops singing and Thalia starts speaking – as the co-leader of the Sky People, she kind of needs to pay attention. Lincoln starts translating again; usually Clarke would be able to understand most of it, but she’s usually not _cuddling_ with Bellamy during Grounder meetings or rituals, so, _yeah, forgive her if her head is not really into it_. Thalia starts by thanking the Sky People for coming – Bellamy chuckles and Clarke elbows him in the side, so he offers the Grounder leader a bright, charming smile – and for the honorable gift they came with: Monty’s moonshine that both Sky People and Grounders share an affinity for and have been sipping during the entire feast. In return, she offers them a large bag of seeds and grain and Clarke feels a little bad for not giving them something better when they’re being _so nice_ to them, willing to help and learn and share because they _want_ to and not because they need to.

Clarke half listens to Thalia as she goes on about the fall festival, explaining how things just don’t grow if you don’t bless them with your patience. She leans up to whisper in Bellamy’s ear, “See? Now _that’s_ poetic,” and he just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. It actually _is_ very poetic and sweet also, how the Grounders worship the earth, how they see the change of seasons, and Clarke finds herself thinking of Bellamy’s story; how their ancestors had a story for everything when the Ark was cold and sad like Hades’ underworld. They’d only _heard_ about autumn leaves and snow and flowers, but the Ark had been nothing but boring metal; a recent history and no soul. And maybe Bellamy made the myth a lot sweeter than it originally was for Octavia, but it’s still sweet to think that people before them used to look at the world around them with bright and curious eyes, wondering how thunder and rain happened and making up gods and heroes to explain them. _Imagination_ wasn’t a luxury they had on the Ark; the only moments Clarke ever felt like she could be more than her mother’s trainee in the hospital wing were when Wells gave her crayons and ink and charcoal and she escaped in her drawings, wishing she could be part of the real world.

And now that she _is_ , maybe it’s time to embrace it. Feeling bolder, Clarke reaches up, tangling her fingers with his hand resting by her shoulder. “Were they ever happy?” she asks, and when Bellamy frowns a little, she gives his hand a squeeze and adds, “Hades and Persephone. Did they get a happy ending or did you just sugarcoat it for Octavia?”

His features relax and he softens, a small, wistful smile gracing his lips. “I’d like to think so, yeah,” he replies in a low voice. “I mean, sure, it’s not your typical love story where boy meets girl and there are obstacles on the way, of course there are, but then they realize how much they love each other and they overcome them all.” Bellamy pauses, chuckling a little, and if Clarke snuggles a little closer it’s only so – _fuck_ , it’s time to quit it with the bullshit, if she snuggles closer it’s because she likes the warmth of him and the way his voice sounds when it reverberates directly in her ear. “In the original myth Hades abducted her, and her mother Demeter, goddess of the harvest, was so shaken by her loss and grief that she neglected the earth and even threatened to leave it barren if her daughter wasn’t returned to her,” he goes on, and okay, this _whole thing_ , Bellamy knowing so many things and that voice of his when he tells a story? It _definitely_ is working for Clarke. “Demeter finally found out that Hades was the one who took her daughter and went to Zeus, ruler of the Olympians, begging him to do something about it. But because this is a Greek myth, Zeus is Persephone’s father and also Hades’ brother and –“

“Hades kidnapped his own _niece_?” Clarke interrupts him, a little too loud if the look Lincoln gives her is any indication.

Bellamy chuckles. “ _See_? Now you understand why I had to make it all romantic and cute for O,” he teases. “So, yeah, Zeus was stuck because he didn’t want to offend anyone, basically. Demeter was pissed and ready to stomp into Hell and bring her daughter back, but it was too late because Persephone ate a pomegranate and if you eat food from the underworld you’re stuck there. Don’t even ask me why, it doesn’t make any sense,” Bellamy quickly adds, lifting a finger to her lips as she opens her mouth to protest again. “But Zeus also knew that Demeter would be willing to let humanity starve forever so he decided that Persephone would spend half of the year with her mother, spring and summer, and the other half with her husband, fall and winter.”

Clarke gives him a look that says _that’s it, really?_ and Bellamy shrugs. “The original version sucks,” she decides.

“And it wasn’t bedtime story material either so I changed it a little bit,” Bellamy adds. “But the legend says that Persephone soon embraced her role as the goddess of the underworld and always sided with her husband. So, yeah,” he goes on, his voice soft again, “they did have a pretty rough start, but I do believe they eventually learned to care about each other. Who knows, maybe she loved his dark side as much as he loved her light,” he finishes with a little shrug.

Clarke looks up at him then, and all of a sudden her brain doesn’t seem as hazy anymore because she knows _exactly_ what he means. And then the words are tumbling out of her mouth before she can try to keep them in – and she doesn’t want to, not any longer. “Just like you and me,” Clarke lets out in a whisper, and she feels the corners of her lips twitch up in a smile because _theirs_ might be the weirdest, darkest story ever but she wouldn’t trade it for the world.

At the end of the day, no matter how badly things started, how much she despised him in the beginning, how much of a jerk he used to be, or all the terrible things they’ve done – _none of it matters_. Nothing else matters except for the fact that she _loves_ him, all of him, secrets and scars, daylight and dark – has loved him for a long time, denied it for a lot longer, tried her best to ignore it, fight it, bury it, but can’t anymore.

Bellamy’s eyes widen and Clarke would laugh if she still knew how to breathe. She feels like a weight has been pulled off her chest but admitting that she loves him, even to herself, is still _huge_. “Your mom _does_ hate me,” Bellamy finally says, and _this is it, this is why she loves him so much_ , because _of course_ Bellamy would say that now, pick the silliest detail when they both know he knows exactly what she means, too.

Yeah, sure, Abby isn’t fond of Bellamy, but really, who cares? Certainly not Clarke. And maybe Persephone loved her mother but she _also_ loved Hades and maybe she chose him, wanted to be with him; knew that winter is not just sad and cold but can also be beautiful. Maybe she saw in him the things that he couldn’t see, loved him _for_ his flaws and not in spite of them, and Clarke gets that, knows exactly what it’s like because just give her a man who firmly believes that he’s a monster and that no one could love him and she’ll do just that, open his eyes and love him with all of her heart. She feels a rush of affection for Bellamy, _her Bellamy_ , and maybe the Grounders are right; things just don’t grow if you don’t bless them with your patience, and Clarke’s _been_ patient.

Tonight, though, she just wants to feel the rush.

_But not right now_ , she reminds herself reluctantly as she tears her eyes off Bellamy and goes back to watching the ceremony, and his arm slips from around her shoulders to her waist, drawing her even closer.

Couples are lining up, facing Thalia who’s surrounded by young children. “This is a fertility ritual my clan does, too,” Lincoln says on cue. “Just like the earth protects the seeds we plant during winter and allows them to blossom when the sun comes back, we believe that babies conceived in the dead of winter and born in spring or summer are stronger.” He pauses, and then gives a nod of his head to the line of couples. “They’re asking both the earth and their leader to bless them and give them a child.”

Bellamy lets out a low chuckle. “There’s another way to make babies that’s _a lot_ more fun,” he says under his breath, and Lincoln pretends he didn’t just hear that. Clarke gives him a little kick with her elbow just for the sake of it.

They watch as each couple kneels before Thalia and the kids place flower crowns on top of their heads – what is it with _flowers_ , really, Bellamy mutters. She then gives them an apple and both man and woman take a bite of it before collecting its seeds and planting them, fingers fumbling together in the ground, and then Thalia blesses them, praying that life will grow in them like it will in the ground.

“Things just don’t grow if you don’t bless them with your patience,” Bellamy says, echoing Thalia’s words from earlier, and Clarke’s head snaps in surprise because she didn’t think that Bellamy had paid any attention at all.

He gives her a smirk then, smug and so Bellamy, and she wants to wipe it off his face as much as she wants to kiss him. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.

She catches Lincoln’s eye and he has the decency not to look at her like she’s some hormonal teenage girl gazing lovingly at her boyfriend.

(God, Bellamy’s _not_ her boyfriend.

And she’s _twenty_ anyway.)

 

* * *

 

He should have seen it coming.

Like, half of the people they meet think they’re a couple – _more_ than a half, but who’s counting? – and yeah, sure, they’ve never denied it because in a way they _are_. They’re in this together and they lead their people together; they are Mom and Dad for the kids, Clarke and Bellamy of the Sky People for the Grounders, the princess and her knight in Kane’s mouth before they said goodbye and parted ways. There’s a pattern, Bellamy gets it, and he doesn’t mind as long as Clarke doesn’t either and is comfortable with it, and she’s never said otherwise, so… Everybody assumes they are a couple and in all reality they act like one, so it’s not like Bellamy can pretend he doesn’t understand where they’re coming from.

But it doesn’t mean he expected _this_ to happen.

Thalia gestures at the crowd to stand and the first thought that crosses his mind is _please, no dancing_ , because he’s not even remotely drunk enough for that. But then the Grounder leader is walking to them, the two little kids following her, and no, _no_ , this is _not_ happening. Except it _is_. “Clarke and Bellamy of the Sky People,” she says with a warm smile as she puts her hands on the kids’ shoulders, pushing them slightly forward, and Bellamy hadn’t noticed until then but the little boy and girl are definitely _hers,_ same sea green eyes and raven hair. “We feel so blessed to have you and your people here tonight.” She pauses, her smile fading a little as she looks down at her children. “But we know you haven’t been blessed yet, and we’d love to add you to our prayers.”

_Oh God_.

He doesn’t dare glance at Clarke or Lincoln because Clarke is _right_ ; these people are so nice, so how is he supposed to tell them that he doesn’t really see little Sky People toddlers running around and throwing axes with Grounder kids in the near future? Hell, their people are _still_ kids; just imagining _Jasper_ becoming a dad makes Bellamy cringe so much he’d rather go give the entire camp the sex talk than face that.

But then Clarke makes a little _swooning_ noise, something that ridiculously sounds like _aww_ and _thank you_ and okay, this is how Bellamy knows that everything about this fertility fall festival is nothing but a freaky dream because Clarke Griffin just _doesn’t_ swoon. Except apparently she does now as she turns to him, beaming smile and sparking eyes, and grabs his hand and gives it a squeeze that says _just go with me on this and wear the damn flower crown, Bellamy_.

So he does. Like there’s _anything_ he wouldn’t do for Clarke.

It’s unreal in the way that everything on Earth seems to be – _and he’s talking about a planet with two-headed deer_. Clarke starts lowering herself to kneel but Thalia stops her, saying that no Sky People will bow to them, so they just end up bending their knees a little so the kids can place the crowns on their heads. Bellamy plucks a flower from it – a toad lily, because _heh_ , he pays attention to Clarke when he escorts her out to collect herbs – and tucks it behind the little girl’s ear; she beams at him and Clarke mirrors her, reaching out to tangle her fingers with his. And then they’re biting into the apple and planting the seeds and he thinks he hears someone – okay, not just someone, but a whole bunch of stupid kids – cry a little bit.

(Miller is not even _trying_ to hide the big, goofy grin on his face, the _traitor_.)

But Clarke’s hand is still in his as Thalia declares that it’s time to dance ( _of course_ ), and the kids seem smart enough not to run to them and congratulate them for metaphorically planting little Sky People baby seeds, so Bellamy can’t really complain. Instead, he leads Clarke back to the log they were sitting on earlier as their friends and allies start dancing to the beat of instruments he can’t name. “So…” he starts _oh so_ smoothly, “ _that_ just happened.”

Clarks tilts her head to him and cocks an eyebrow at him. “You’re acting like they asked us to have sex on an altar or something,” she chuckles, and okay, Bellamy didn’t expect the princess to be so light about it. She seems to sense it, and Clarke lets out a little sigh. “Just relax, okay? It’s not like anybody’s expecting us to have a baby by next summer or else all hell will break loose and the alliance is over. They just wanted to do something nice _for_ us because they think it’s sad no one’s got kids yet. Raven and Nate and Jasper will probably tease us for a few days but you just have to put them on latrine duty for a week and they’ll calm down,” she says with a shrug.

Bellamy grins. “I like the way you think, Princess.”

“Do you now?” Clarke laughs, and he laughs too because of the absurdity of the whole thing. He’s twenty-five and she’s just twenty and their friends look at them like they’re their actual parents and every Grounder they meet thinks they’re married and now they’re wearing flower crowns and planting baby seeds and this is honestly the most _fun_ he’s had in months. Long gone are the first few months on Earth that they rarely talk about – it’s too painful, too dark, and these wounds have never fully healed, probably never will, but they’ve learned to live _with_ them instead of in spite of them. Now they have their own village and they make their own alliances, their friends are happy and safe, and life _is_ good.

So it seems as good a moment as any to try a little joy, too. And they’re still laughing as Bellamy leans in and Clarke’s free hand goes to his face, the two of them ever in sync as his lips touch hers. Kissing feels like everything else they do together, natural, seamless, effortless; she gives and he takes and he gives and she takes and it’s a dance they’ve known before even learning the steps. Clarke’s laugh turns into a moan as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against the seam of her lips and his teeth tugging at her bottom lip, and her hand slides down his jaw, his neck, her nails scratching at his skin before she reaches the collar of his shirt and clenches her fingers around it, pulling him in closer. It feels so good, and _God_ , Bellamy should have known it would be like this, that they would feel like this _together_ , and he wants to go back in time and kick himself for not trying it before; but at the same time maybe it feels _this_ good because of all the things they went through together, the good and the bad, and every single moment when he _didn’t_ kiss her led them to this one, so…

“Stop thinking and dance with me,” Clarke mumbles between kisses before she pulls back and stands, tugging at his hand to prop him up. “Come on, Bellamy. Dance with me,” she pleads, pouting a little at the face he knows he’s making.

He sucks at dancing – and Clarke is even worse, to be honest. But she’s the princess and he’s the knight and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her; it doesn’t mean he won’t whine a little about it, though, just for the sake of it. “Stop squirming, Bellamy. Let me paint all over you, Bellamy. Wear the damn flower crown, Bellamy,” he recites, mimicking her tone as she leads him to the rest of the crowd. “You’re so bossy.”

Clarke presses her mouth against his hotly, her hands smearing the paint on his body as they dance over his skin. “Shut up and dance, Bellamy.”

He bows a little after she pulls back and starts twirling, paint-covered hands thrown in the air, brave little bird spreading her wings on the first day of spring, and Bellamy rolls his eyes a little and grins before following her lead.

Later, when _shut up_ and _dance with me_ turn into _carry me to bed_ , he doesn’t protest.

 

* * *

 

Their daughter is born three summers later.

(Monty suggests that they call her Apple, and Bellamy puts him on diaper duty for a week.)

 

* * *

 

**_the end_ **

 


End file.
